On the Pale Sand
by ispitinyourcoke
Summary: Jude Stilicho is an unlikely hero. His world is set inside of the Cthulhu Mythos, drawing from works like Poe, Lovecraft, vampires, Joseph Campell, even Sonic the Hedgehog. Follow Jude to worlds both familiar and foreign. Good for both scares and laugh


Beliefs are, quite frankly, the most fickle things on earth. They change every time a trend goes out of fashion, or a preacher makes another "racist" remark on television. They disappear in light of scientific discoveries, or when a famous politician denounces his or her previous actions. The funny thing is, beliefs mostly go by unnoticed. As soon as it becomes unpopular to hold a certain belief, it suddenly seems that that belief never existed, that no one was ever "dumb" enough to have a certain opinion on something (this, of course, is with exception: there is always hatred like racism, even when it only seems to exist in the minds of the oppressed).

I once believed that fate was a bunch of bullshit, that everything you learned about fate from scantily clad women in circus tents was nothing more than plays on the collective unconscious by half-wit salespeople. I thought that the universe consisted of nothing, and that ultimately, we are just a rock filled with shit floating quickly through space to nowhere. I thought that words like "faith" and "grace" were reserved for folk singers and simpletons, and that the only time you needed to pray was when you heard the door slam behind you as your girlfriend stormed into the bedroom, while you spread a hooker over backwards on the new sheets. And, finally, I thought that the only things that mattered in life started with the letter "b," like "bitches," "beer" or "Batman."

Man, was I fucking wrong. I found out that those scantily clad women know a good bit about my future, including what seems to be making its way to the public eye in the form of a lawsuit against offensive conduct while in public (I'll never live down what Shaman Curtsy did to me). It was also brought to my attention that the great big universe, in fact, isn't full of nothing; it's filled with ancient evils that lurk just beyond the shadows, waiting to come out of hiding at just the right moment. And as far as faith, grace and prayer are concerned -- well, let's just say I pray often these days, and at least I know someone is listening other than myself.

Anyways, all of those judgments I had passed upon the earth started being washed away a few years ago, when a man named Jon Malek entered my life. At the time, I was a shithead young boy, trying to make a living shoveling shit on the streets of Arkham. That's right; Arkham is a real fucking place, and forget about what you learned from Batman. Arkham is a shithole town in New England where the only time the sun shines is when another mayor dies in a back alley. And even then, the only reason that burning star shows its ugly fucking mug in Arkham is to rot the corpses, to rid the rest of us of its stench. Michael Marshall once wrote a convincing few lines about the deceased. He said something to the effect of that the real horror in death is the pain loved ones will never rid themselves of once someone kicks over. Of course, Marshall was a bit more poetic than I am, but then again, most people in Arkham were born with a sick sense of rhyme.

So one day when I was wallowing in my perpetual destruction, when I was knee-deep in booze at Alemeat (which is about as classy a bar as its name hints), Jon Malek and his freshly-polished dress boots and thick, greasy hair came waltzing into my life with promises of riches and work. If you ever visit Arkham, you'll know that these two things are not a common occurrence. In fact, the only common things in Arkham are perversion and crime, which is probably why I've never left the city, as these things tend to drag you down the rabbit hole. So when a man dressed in ivory like Jon Malek throws a nice stack of twenty dollar bills in front of your face and offers you only a few hours of work at a good price, you take it and run, like I did. I've never looked back (that's a lie), and I'll never regret doing the deeds I've done (another lie), and I'll never thank Malek for what he has done for me (this part's true, as Malek was brutally ripped to pieces on the city's streets some time ago).

Because without Jon Malek, I never would have stumbled upon anything directly related to the Council of Seven, or to their omnipotent leader Atomos. I never would have known about the starving vampires roaming the filthy streets of the world's cities, or about the pocket universes only the horribly demented have ever seen. No, without Jon Malek, I never would have glimpsed tiny glimpses of Carcosa, or roamed through tunnels only that Wicked One could have dug, and I never would have learned anything about that damned book some refer to as the Necronomicon. I wouldn't have spent months searching for the Yellow King, only to realize that I was really running from the Yellow Sign.

Now, I know most of these names are foreign to you, and in fact, if you know anything about these ancient evils, then I fear that you may already be infected. It is only a matter of time before the horrible things you devour will come skittering back, tearing apart your soul and infecting your moral compass. I know this, because it happened to me, like it happened to Jon Malek, and like it happened to every other twisted motherfucker before him. But without Malek around to point me in the (arguably) right direction, I wouldn't have learned shit. I never would have seen the end of the universe, or Earth's destruction, and without Jon Malek, I never would have been sentenced to die in this cursed asylum.

You heard me right: there really is a place called Arkham Asylum, but Christian Bale would shit himself before ever stepping in here. There's a carving in the concrete wall of the cell I call home:

"In this cell I will wait for death, hoping each day that it may come, fearing He may never make the journey."

You won't know this yet, but those words are not the carver's. They've been around for thousands of years, popping up in everything from cave scribbles to Latin to a child's weary kindergarten drawings, and they mean more than anything to me than you could ever imagine. I can thank Malek for this cell I dwell within. If he's down there in Hell, kicking back in a cherry wood desk next to the Dark One himself, pointing administrative fingers at demons and sinners alike, I hope he chokes on his own tongue.

So I tip my glass to Jon Malek, and now I'll quit rambling for a little while.

My name is Jude Stilicho, and this is my story. It's dark, it's weird, and often creepy. If you stick around long enough, though, you might learn a few things about the real world. Or worlds.

So light up a cigarette, pull up a chair, and for God's sake, drink.

Drink heavily.


End file.
